


Practice Makes Perfect

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dr. Watson's diaries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Pre-Slash, set in 1881
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Watson believes he is past his dancing days due to the leg injury. Holmes intends to prove otherwise.





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Практика, это путь к совершенству](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557467) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)
  * Inspired by [First Waltz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196899) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo). 
  * In response to a prompt by [pankesito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pankesito/pseuds/pankesito) in the [VictorianHolmesKinkmemeRound01](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/VictorianHolmesKinkmemeRound01) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> holmes and watson dancing <3  
> or, holmes teaching watson how to dance :)

_May 6th_.—The weather was gloomy since morning, leaden skies hanging oppressively low, and by the afternoon the rain began its monotonous patter against the windows. Thankfully, my shoulder and leg didn’t hurt much, but I was seized by all-consuming apathy and was spending the day in my armchair, reading Stevenson to distract myself from unwelcome thoughts. Holmes was busy with his scrapbooks. In spite of the absence of interesting cases, he seemed to be in brighter spirits, humming softly under his breath one of Chopin’s waltzes. I was glad of his company. Even when we were both in the dumps, silence together was better than being alone, and now his vitality was cheering me up a little.

“Would you mind if I play, Watson?” he asked suddenly.

“Not at all,” I replied.

He rose from the heap of cut newspapers, took his violin from its case in the corner, and with a dreamy expression on his face put the bow to the strings. The light, joyous melody flowed in its full splendour, so familiar and evoking. It brought me back to my student days, to merry balls and carefree dances until dawn, when there was no pain and no regrets, and plans for the future were grand. My soul had been innocent, unstained by blood and fleeing the battlefield to save my skin. Visions of my slaughtered comrades hadn’t been haunting me. On vacations I would go back to Edinburgh where Mother lived in our little old house. If only I had visited her more often.

My ruminations didn’t escape Holmes’s perceptive gaze. His brow furrowed as he regarded me, his half-smile fading away. He finished the piece and laid down his violin with a sigh.

“I didn’t wish to sadden you, my dear fellow,” he said.

“It made me feel nostalgic, not sad,” I assured him hastily. “I haven’t been to a ball for ages.”

“I can’t say I miss such gatherings,” Holmes said with a shrug. “Yet work might require attending them, and my dancing skills have become rather rusty.”

“Yes, it’s all about practicing,” I agreed.

“Are you good at dancing?” Holmes asked, a mischievous glint rekindling in his eyes.

“I used to be, but those days are over,” I replied, shaking my head.

“Oh, Watson, too modest as usual,” Holmes drawled. “You showed what you can do during our impromptu sparring last week. To a certain extent, boxing is not unlike dancing. You have quick reaction, sufficient coordination, and a sense of rhythm. Your endurance might be lacking, but it will be restored with proper training.”

“Thanks, Holmes,” I said skeptically. “What are you driving at, though?”

He extended his hand in reply.

“Are you serious?” I stared at him. “Good Heavens, you are.”

His face was earnest, and he radiated the same determination with which he would approach a convoluted problem. Over the few months we had been sharing rooms I got accustomed to his eccentricities. There was something so masterful and compelling about him that I always found myself complying with his requests, no matter how outlandish they might seem. This occasion wasn’t an exception.

I took his proffered hand and got up, still bewildered by the idea. He pulled me closer, and the next moment we were in each other’s personal space. Our breaths mingled, my heart skipping a beat as I perceived his scent—faint notes of black tobacco and lavender hair cream blended with something that was just _him_. For the first time I was looking into his eyes from a distance of mere inches. His irises were of deeper gray around the pupils which dilated slightly when I put my right hand on his waist and we assumed the position.

“Shall we?” he asked impassively, as if we danced together every day.

“What about music?” I returned. “Or would you prefer to count?”

“Let’s begin with counting. One—”

Our knees bumped awkwardly, and we collided chest to chest, almost losing our balance. Instinctively, I clutched Holmes tighter by the waist until we regained our footing.

“Ah, my mistake,” Holmes said in a level tone which was belied by a hint of colour tinging his cheekbones. “Following the lead is something new to me.”

“If it’s inconvenient—”

“Challenges are refreshing. Ready?”

I nodded, and he started to count again. Our movements were not quite harmonious since both of us had been out of practice for a long while. Besides, being led rather than leading must have been indeed foreign to Holmes’s dominating nature. My limbs felt unwieldy; afraid of treading on Holmes’s feet, I manoeuvred him clumsily, and we ran into the sofa.

“Sorry,” I muttered, flushing up. “Maybe we should abandon the endeavour.”

“Don’t lose heart, Watson,” Holmes said kindly.

He relied on me as he had during the Jefferson Hope case, and I wished to be worthy of his trust. Holmes’s enthusiasm was contagious, so we resumed our efforts, both focused entirely on the process. Soon Holmes learned to anticipate my steps, and I adjusted too; perhaps it was muscle memory, for my feet seemed to glide of their own accord. All I needed to do was to guide my partner. His lithe, wiry body felt strange in my arms which were accustomed to softness and curves. It was definitely unusual to dance with someone taller than me, and yet, to my surprise, the novelty was not unappealing.

Holmes appeared nonchalant, but his palm pressed to mine was getting damp. Had we worn our dress clothes, I wouldn’t have noticed it through the gloves. Our clasped hands were inappropriately bare, and I could sense every minute tremor of Holmes’s long, nervous fingers. He stopped counting and hummed the melody of the waltz instead, his eyes sparkling as he gazed at me. I forgot all about my brown study, humming along with him. It ceased to be an exercise or a challenge—we were truly enjoying ourselves and quite lost track of time. Perhaps we would have danced until evening, had it not been for my leg cramping up.

“It seems that we’ve been overzealous,” Holmes said apologetically as I dropped into my armchair, chuckling.

“It was indeed a good training,” I replied.

“Then we should repeat it.”

“Oh, definitely. In a few days I’m your man.”

“And for now, allow me.”

He seated himself at my feet and started to massage my sore ankle. I murmured my thanks, closing my eyes. His massages had become indispensable lately, since the night he had offered his help when I couldn’t sleep because of pain. For the rest of the day we both were in a cheerful mood.

As I write this entry before retiring to bed, I cannot but wonder at the way our friendship is blossoming. Yet again Holmes made me believe in my own abilities and showed me that my life isn’t over at twenty-nine which I am turning in a couple of weeks. My health may be still frail and my prospects aren’t very promising, but it won’t do to give up. I shall work on a novel about the Hope case, and someday I will be able to buy a practice. Holmes inspires me. I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone more, his quirks and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding Watson’s ruminations about fleeing the battlefield at Maiwand, an excerpt from an account written by a real eyewitness and participant of the battle, who had to retreat much in the same way:
> 
> “When once the retreat commenced all the horrors of fighting savage nations began. Most of our wounded, poor fellows had to be left on the ground, and their fate, of course was sealed. It makes one’s blood run cold to think of the sad fate of such a number of gallant men.” ([Source](https://undereveryleaf.wordpress.com/2017/06/20/the-battle-of-maiwand-27th-july-1880-part-1/))


End file.
